


Dreams

by SubjectB2



Category: The Maze Runner (Movies), The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Depression, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Teresa Agnes and Thomas (Maze Runner) are Twins, because it's what they deserve, teresa centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:15:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26109310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SubjectB2/pseuds/SubjectB2
Summary: Nightmares keep her up most of the time..[teresa centric]modern AU - introspection
Relationships: Teresa Agnes & Thomas (Maze Runner)
Kudos: 6





	Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> TW - depression, implied/referenced child abuse

Nightmares keep her up most of the time.

They're less jarring than they used to be. Whilst she can still hear the mechanical beeping and feel the sharp, suffocating pain in her chest, the actual sight of it all has faded into the shadows that lurk in the corners of her mind. Her brother's shouts still linger on the edge (she doubts she'll ever get his voice that day out of her head, but she'll damn well try). Those dreams are the most frequent, leaving her gasping for air every time she wakes up, eyes stinging, convincing herself that it's the hospital's undertone of bleach and not the sound of her own name.

Sometimes she sees her mother. She occasionally calls her DeeDee, speaks to her in soft tones reminiscent of the melodies that used to sing her to sleep. 'My girl', the woman calls her, 'my precious girl'. Those dreams slip between her grasp just as quickly as Teresa did from her (or maybe as quickly as her mother did from Teresa- she's never been sure who's side actually lost).

The same woman appears in her dreams who calls her Teresa, or young lady when she's particularly angry, but this woman is not her mother. 'You're a disgrace,' the woman reminds her, as if she didn't already know, 'it's all your fault'. In the majority of dreams she fights back, insisting that the woman doesn't know her at all, forgetting that backchat always leads to consequences (though the faded stinging sensation on her face reminds her why she shouldn't). In a few of the dreams, however, the fatigue wins over. Her knees are red from hitting the floor, eyes prickling as she begs the woman to love her again for just one second. Those dreams grow more frequent (she's not really sure why she's so desperate to impress the woman who left her alone in the hospital on Christmas Day, but she is her mother after all).

One night she sees nothing at all, yet she can't stop the flood of sensations. The feeling of moss in her throat, spiders crawling up her arms, walls that she can't even see closing in on her- she can't shake it. She wakes up gasping again, barely making it to the bathroom before she throws up the contents of her stomach. She stays sat against the wall for a while, trembling, locking the door because Thomas just needs to stay out of her way and she's  _ fine _ . Later she throws on a hoodie to cover the scratches that appeared god knows when, and stumbles half asleep to school. She's late for first period, landing herself in a detention that she can't seem to bring herself to care about. Every sniffle and scrape of a pencil seems to infuriate her to no end, and she's snapped at Minho three times in the past twenty minutes. 

By lunch, her breathing still feels off, though that's hardly out of the ordinary anymore, and she lasts eighteen seconds in the cafeteria before practically bolting out of the doors until she found herself outside. Her friends are shouting at her, she thinks, but she's out of it until a hand grabs her firmly on the shoulder. She jumps out of her skin, chest tightening, and it's like her dream all over again- moss in her throat, walls enclosing in- and suddenly she can't breathe.

She never talks about her dreams to Thomas, finds it too hard to talk about the woman she calls a mother, or how sometimes he features too. This one's no different- her lips remain sealed, leaving him running for hours in frustration (later he realises he's losing her too, the same way she slipped between her mother's grasp. Or maybe, in a way, he already has).

There wasn't a night that month that the nightmares don't wake her up past midnight. She no longer shouts, rarely cries anymore, only wills herself not to look at the shadows in the corner of her room that threaten to invade. Despite how hard she tries, fatigue never wins over- those days she walks through life as a half-formed ghost, or refuses to leave the safety of her bed (in reality, Thomas can't seem to decide which is worse).

Brenda stops offering the drugs and drink, seeing her state, guilt eating at her already- Teresa doesn't care, she decides, they didn't help anyway. She doesn't need to ask Thomas what's wrong with Teresa- she already knows (deep down, they all do. They see her hollow eyes on a daily basis. Some of them have seen the same look in the mirror). 

Two days later, Thomas finds the box of antidepressants discarded at the back of the bathroom cupboard. Despite all but screaming at himself not to, he sits her up and makes her sip some whatever, before practically shoving the pills down her throat. She barely struggles, only finding it in herself to cry for a few seconds before letting her eyes close again, though not to go to sleep (sleep's about as lost on her as she is to them).

It takes a week for them to start working again, and in that time, there's many conversations had. Three days in, she cries into his shoulder, a string of endless sorry's following by 'I thought I was okay's (it's a conversation they'd had too many times now, Thomas is certain he knows it by heart). Six days in, she reluctantly confesses the dreams that started it all. She tells him of her name and his voice, not that he didn't know that already (he hears her mumbling most nights), and if the woman she calls a mother. Most importantly, she talks about the most recent one- moss in throat, walls enclosing- and the way the shadows that stare back when she wakes past midnight. He holds her as she talks, tells her he'll stay there as long as she needs him to (really, he needs to hold her too).

  
  



End file.
